


the safest place you’ve found

by meliorism



Series: tempora mutantur [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mentions of Character Death, Post Blind Betrayal, Recovery, Sexual Experimentation, Slow Build, Spoilers, Vignette, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 12:10:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5743339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meliorism/pseuds/meliorism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>while danse is trying to figure out his new place in the world, a war happens. <i>He thinks Sole’s hands could make him into something not defective. Something whole. Something that could protect.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	the safest place you’ve found

**Author's Note:**

> a sort of independent prequel to [_the vessel in deep disrepair_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5542781), featuring the moments immediately after blind betrayal up to (and a little after) the end of the game. so **spoilers** abound for the mid/late game. 
> 
> — title comes from snow patrol's _the lightning strike_ ( _part ii: the sunlight through the flags_ , specifically). the whole song fueled me while writing this.  
> — comments are much appreciated!

The first to know is Deacon. Of course he is. The Railroad is the first stop when Sole takes Danse away from the bunker and the oppressive weight of earth and metal to get to the truck shop. Sole doesn’t want Danse alone in there right now, and Danse doesn’t want Sole roaming on his own, either. They talk in hushed tones. Sole doesn’t want to involve the rest of the Railroad unless they need to right now, but Desdemona is giving them this look.

Deacon tries to whisper. It’s impossible to whisper right now.

“Well, I suppose it could be worse. Could be you actually were a ghoul in disguise,” he says.

Danse says nothing. Sole steps in. “Deacon, please.”

“Wanderer, my friend.” Deacon’s voice is somewhat softer when he turns back to Danse. “I’ll try to check up old records, see what I can find. I can’t promise you anything though. You said you were from the Capital Wasteland?”

Sole nods for him. “Rivet city. I’d appreciate it.”

“We’ll get through this, pal,” Deacon’s looking at Danse while he says it. He slips easily into this soft sort of voice, reassuring. He’s probably used it a countless times with a countless scared synths. “You’ll see.”

He’s trying—that much Danse is able to recognize. He doesn’t care much for it.

*

After a while, Sole sleeps. Just two hours, he says. Nobody minds. Everyone can see the dark circles under his eyes.

“He hasn’t slept since Maxson gave him the order,” Deacon says in a hushed voice.

Danse gives him a noncommittal hum—thoughtful, if Deacon is willing to dissect it. He’s sitting against the wall. Sole is sleeping by his side, curled up into a ball on one of the many mattresses they’ve spread around HQ. He won’t allow his body to stop, but he would bleed to allow Sole this amount of rest as well as some amount of peace, however short. Deacon takes the chance. He proceeds to describe how after Maxson stood down, Sole and Deacon traveled to the Prydwen where Sole then locked himself in Danse’s old quarters after the debriefing. How then he proceeded to wear Danse’s old suit of power armor and tell Deacon to wait for him at HQ. Finally, how he leapt off the Prydwen’s landing dock.

It’s all lies, obviously. Like most drivel that slips through Deacon’s teeth. Clearly.

Though one of the reasons Sole gave for leaving the power armor at the bunker was a broken shock absorber.

Deacon also tells him of Sole’s determination when he first tracked him down at the bunker. Danse isn’t surprised. He saw his skills first hand when together they tracked down Paladin Brandis himself as well as his team.

*

Sole wakes up screaming. He punches Danse’s arms and chest before he realizes he is awake and hitting substance and steel rather than his fears. Deacon is startled, but Danse makes a wall between Sole and everyone else before anyone can realize what’s going on. The bulk of the power armor creates an illusion of privacy.

“I’m sorry,” he says, rocking himself minutely.

His knuckles are bruised.

*

Dogmeat treats him no differently than before. He’s a good boy, or so Sole tells him as soon as he sees the dog. When Danse steps out of his power armor, he crouches and brings a hand to Dogmeat’s snout. His wet nose rubs against it and doesn’t stop until Danse starts scratching the thick fur behind the dog’s ears. He really is a good boy.

*

He can’t help but think of Cutler. His earnest desire to help, to make a name for himself. They were so naive back then, thinking they could take on the world and make it better.

Well it turns out they were bound to become the monsters they swore to protect everyone from.

*

At first, Sole makes an exercise of taking Danse away from the bunker and out into the wasteland. That’s how Danse discovers that he is entirely happy when he wipes his forehead to discover a rivulet of blood, red and warm. He doesn’t know why nor is he willing to explore that question. But it does, it really does make him happy. He doesn’t disclose that information to Sole.

It’s when Danse insists he should get back to the bunker that Sole proposes that if Danse is to spend his days at the bunker, it needs to be improved. He is adamant that Danse needs a good place to live in, desperate to make it a home. Danse wonders if he was like this when he and his wife were expecting, but ultimately decides against pursuing that line of thought.

Instead, he asks, “Why did you do it?” The question comes out of the blue. Sole was about to sleep, curled up as he is in his makeshift bed at the bunker. He has to go in the morning.

Sole studies him for a while. There’s a small crease between his brows. Then, he smiles and closes his eyes as he rests his head on his bundled shirt. “It was the right thing to do.”

The reply tightens Danse’s throat. Danse folds his hands tighter in his lap.

*

Sole helps him set up in between running jobs for the Railroad. He brings him food and water—gifts from Codsworth, he says. Danse watches him sort the things he brings from the truck shop with that kind of determination that seems to permeate everything Sole does.

There is an empty sort of feeling from within the quiet corners of his being, scratching within his ribcage. He yearns.

*

Sole brings stability where nothing else quite can at this point. Unlike the smokey impressions of his past, Sole is substance and heat where he touches Danse on the shoulder. He’s tangible—and yet he’s energy as well. Where Danse’s limbs feel like lead Sole seems to coax something out of them. Small things. Sole makes it a mission to make him eat and drink once he discovers the rations he’s brought were mostly untouched. He invites Danse to join him in his supply runs to and from the truck shop. He brings him clothes that are Danse’s size. He asks Danse how he feels, with a quiet sort of voice that should not be wasted on a machine. Danse knows he is of no use.

Sometimes, Danse is so angry at him. It is unworthy of him, he knows. Danse refuses to feel ashamed.

But Sole, well. Sole is calm, patient. Like sleeping in ice for two hundred and ten years enlightened him in addition giving him cold hands and feet and the warmest heart. Sole gave him back his life and now he attempts to nurture it. It’s with blind trust that Sole places Danse’s life in his own hands. Sole also trusts Danse with _his_ life. It’s a disquieting thought that flashes just when Sole’s rifling through his Pip-Boy.

The truth is, Sole’s trust is terribly misplaced in Danse. And he tells him exactly that.

“If our places were reversed,” Danse starts, “I would have followed his orders.”

Sole stares at him with his big brown-green eyes. It takes him a moment to situate himself. “If I were a synth?” Sole ventures.

Danse presses his lips together. “Yes,” he says. “I would kill you.” A pause. Then, “It wouldn’t be right.”

Despite the conversation topic being his death, Sole smiles at him. “It’s what you were taught.” He’s too understanding.

It’s remarkable how Sole seems to recall every little thing that Danse has ever said to him. Paladin Krieg and Cutler and Haylen and everything in between.

“Yet you didn’t do it, _brother_.”

The title tastes like ashes in his mouth. Danse can see it’s just as bitter to Sole as it feels to him. It’s a joke. He’s an exile and Sole makes it no secret that he doesn’t intend to work for Maxson any longer. Sole chuckles. “Would you be surprised if I told you I didn’t join the Brotherhood to kill ghouls and super mutants and synths?”

Danse wouldn’t. He can list at least a couple cases where Sole refused to kill each one of those. Danse shakes his head anyway.

“I wanted to help people. Still do.” Sole regards him with a tilt of the head. Danse believes him. He commits every word of his to memory, to burn them into his very being. “I don’t think I can do that with the Brotherhood. Not anymore.”

He understands Sole all too well. Danse thinks that if he is to remain alive, it is to protect. A gun holds no purpose if it cannot keep the one yielding it alive. He realizes he is threading murky thoughts.

“I want to do that as well,” Danse says, voice barely above a murmur, and Sole listens attentively. Danse dedicates himself to the study of his hands. “I joined the Brotherhood of Steel so that I could become more than a scavenger and help the people. Now, I don’t know if that wish is my own or a treasure I usurped when I became Danse. But my will remains. Yet, how can a machine like me pretend to be an instrument of good?”

He just listens to the Sole huffing a breath. He’s frustrated. He can’t hide it.

“Well, that’s just Brotherhood rhetoric, isn’t it? I don’t see it that way,” Sole says. His voice and face are intense in some way Danse can’t pinpoint. He’s angry, but not at Danse. He’s getting onto his feet and closing what paces there are between them. It’s when he sits on his haunches to look at him that Danse fixates his hands again.

“You can see it differently, too. You’re a good man, Danse. I wish you could see that. Their way of seeing things is killing you.” He curls his hand around Danse’s wrist, thumb over his bloodflood. “You’re the one who can change it. But I promise I’m here to help.”

*

As soon as Danse finishes making the bunker a home, Sole performs a sort of an inspection. He ends up taking away the bottles of wine that have gathered. He eyes the guns suspiciously but he doesn’t take them as well.

“Promise me,” Sole begs, however, voice a quiet sort of intense, “that you will only use these in defense. Please.”

*

Danse starts escorting Sole around the Commonwealth more often, and it isn’t entirely unpleasant to travel to the sound of the radio and Sole’s quiet humming. He still likes to listen to everyone’s life stories and help where he can. They kill wild animals, ghouls, whatever the settlers request from them. Sole manages to bring a little peace with him. Danse is so thankful for him. He wants to make it easier on Sole and bring him peace. Sole still takes Deacon on occasion, especially when he has jobs to run for the Railroad.

That’s how Sole starts a silent war with the Institute. Neither of them discuss the implications of it. He wants to pry as much information as he can from them, so it’s safe, for now. Danse is assembling a station for Sole’s power armor—Danse’s old armor; he hasn’t seen him use it again. It’s early in the morning when Sole tells him he’s going to the Institute. He wants to talk to Shaun, too.

“Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

Sole chuckles. “I’ll be back before the end of the day.”

*

There’s nothing of a synth designated M7-97 in the Institute’s records, Sole says. Not beyond genetic information. That he can find, at least. He dumps an unexpected amount of holotapes on the desk. He’ll sort them later. He tiptoes around the subject of Shaun—Father. He’s testing ground with his son, he says.

Danse thinks Sole’s afraid of what he might learn of his child.

*

The Railroad doesn’t yield anything, either. What they’re trying to do is exactly what the Railroad is made to prevent. The fall of the Switchboard didn’t help things, anyway. Still, Deacon can’t find all his contacts back in the Capital Wasteland. But he’ll keep trying. There’s still hope.

*

The Prydwen is the shadow that looms in the distance. Danse makes a conscious effort not to linger when he inevitably lands his eyes upon it.

He wonders what is of the Brotherhood these days, not losing only one but two paladins all at once. Because, for all that Sole is, for all purposes, still considered a Brother, he will not set foot in the Prydwen unless he’s got no other choice. Danse is highly concerned that Sole is wasting a perfectly good chance of making things right, but like with the matter of synths, Sole is determined in his estrangement.

He wonders if they still talk about Sole like they did when he started working on Liberty Prime—like he’s the very second coming of the Lone Wanderer. The baby who lived in a vault until they came to the surface to find their dad and ended up destroying the Enclave, the orphan who never did find home once more. They aren’t entirely wrong in their comparison, though Sole holds this hope that always seemed lacking in the overblown speeches made about the kid from Vault 101 over the radio.

*

When Sole kisses him, it’s an untimely thing, and Sole’s new scope ends up on the floor with a broken lens. It starts with a glass cut in his hand. Sole wants to thank Danse for nursing his hand. “Can I?” he asks, looking up from his stool, and while Danse isn’t experienced, the way Sole leans into him is a good tell. He finds himself nodding even before Sole finishes asking, and their noses end up smooshing against each other when he leans down to allow Sole to reach him.

It also ends up undeniably skewed towards the corner of Danse’s top lip. It’s perfect. It’s too short. Danse gets swept away and the hand he puts on the workbench for support ends up knocking the scope onto the floor.

He apologizes. Sole doesn’t mind.

“Again,” Sole says. “Please.”

Sole’s hands hold on to the collar of the bomber jacket Danse is wearing. He doesn’t wait for Danse to kiss him and does it instead. It isn’t so much a collision of noses this time. It’s a gentle thing, but Sole’s hunger slips through the veneer of it all, nipping at Danse’s lip. The intensity of Sole’s want is a little overwhelming.

Danse’s face burns. He rubs his thumb over Sole’s bandaged hand.

“I wanted to do this before,” Sole says, not quite pulling away. His breath fans against Danse’s parted lips. It’s intoxicating.

“How long.”

It’s too soft to be considered a question, but Sole still does answer, toying with the lapels of Danse’s jacket. “A while.” He shrugs his shoulders. He’s smiling, his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Danse needs to understand. He really does.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to.” Sole is patting Danse’s jacket. Danse is focused on his nose, his mouth. It’s a flushed pink against his teeth. It doesn’t disassemble him quite as much as Sole’s eyes do. “It’s alright if you don’t want to. I’ll understand.”

He does understand.

And Danse does want to repeat. He shouldn’t, and he’d rather have Sole tell him what he wants, but **—** He focuses on touching Sole’s hand, his wrist, he likes pressing his thumb against the veins and tendons there and hearing Sole’s breathing hitch just so. Danse kisses him once more for good measure, before pulling away and picking Sole’s now broken scope.

“Thank you. You have given me a lot to think about,” he admits.

He gives Sole the scope and kisses his forehead.

*

The event doesn’t repeat itself. The potential is there, but guilt and resignation nestles itself in the recesses of Danse’s throat. It tastes like decaying metal. It makes his will inert and his body heavy, sinking into the depths below.

Sole doesn’t bring the issue up for discussion. Of course.

*

They find a ghoulified child in a fridge, and it’s as strange as it sounds. Danse is genuinely surprised he didn’t go feral yet, but that just means that there is still a chance that he will. But the child, Billy, is lost. His parents are long gone, most likely. Sole still promises to get him home. Sole will protect him like he will any child in the Commonwealth. Danse doesn’t disagree.

The only monster they find is the one that asks to buy Billy. Billy, who climbs onto Danse’s shoulder when they have to traverse water. Billy, who retreats under Sole’s wing when a Mirelurk appears. Billy, who cries his happiness and relief when he finds his family—ghoulified, but alive. Mostly whole.

Sole cries, too.

*

He watches Sole assemble a new scope, and some part of him—

(one that thinks of himself as metal no matter what Sole tells him of a synth’s creation)

thinks of returning his being to the world like this. He thinks Sole’s hands could make him into something not defective. Something whole. Something that could protect.

*

Haylen shows up at the bunker three days after Sole leaves with MacCready. Danse doesn’t think it is a coincidence. There’s a new scar in her chin and a bag slung over her shoulders. “This is for you, sir. I thought you could use these.”

Danse opens it. There’s water, field rations, a couple boxes of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes. He’s suspicious of Sole’s influence. “Thank you, Haylen.”

She smiles. She’s inspecting the place with the same amount of rigor Sole did. She looks different, somehow. Her presence feels different. Or maybe that’s just Danse—he doesn’t say anything about it. “This doesn’t look so bad as I expected,” she comments when she sees the quarters through the window.

He means to ask her about Knight Rhys, but doesn’t come through with it. When he asked Sole he managed to tiptoe around the subject. But Danse knows the people under his charge and he knows Rhys would have the synth infiltrator dead. And that, Danse understands—he would, too.

“I assume he told you to come see me?” Danse asks.

“Yes,” Haylen says. “I was meaning to come earlier, but I wasn’t sure if it was safe. If I may, sir?” She walks up to him somewhat hesitantly, but she has her arms open in invitation, determined nonetheless.

Danse huffs quietly. He feels a swell of pride. She’s a good scribe; Sole told him about what happened back when the results from the holotape came out into the open. “It would be for the best if you called me Danse.”

He still allows her the embrace.

He allows himself a moment to mourn the yearning she brings with her presence. It’s a past turned to rust and bone.

*

The precise moment former Paladin Danse realizes he is in love is like this:

Sole rushes them into a Pulowski when a drizzle turns into a downpour. It comes far too late, this moment of respite, because they’re already soaked to the bones. Sole laughs when they try to fit into the cramped space, so they decide it’s for the best not to close the shelter. Sole is still laughing and groaning and shivering just slightly when he runs his hands through his hair and tries to squeeze the rainwater out of it. Danse is fretting about his power armor getting rusted more than it already is despite his best efforts. There is nothing Danse can do about the few drops that run down his neck into his armor, so he just keeps watch, tries to hold on through the sudden sense of smallness that comes with the rain.

Sole groans. “Well, I hope that doesn’t last too long.” Sole’s breath fans out in huffs against the plating. “You alright?”

It startles Danse. Sole’s murmur is barely audible over the radio and the rainfall—it’s watching him thread his hands through his hair to pick it back up that spikes electricity and warmth within him, even out here in the rain. Sole’s looking up at him, his elbows knock into Danse’s armor and he has to brace a hand against the chest plate, which just makes Danse take notice of their closeness. It feels like a homecoming.

Perhaps he doesn’t notice it at first because, to Danse, it is a process that happens in parts. He fell in love with his capable hands first. Then the gentle look he has each time he deals with something sensitive. Then the way he always seems to wear tacky, oversized— _fashionable_ —sunglasses on good days. Then his throaty voice when singing an off key rendition of _Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On_. Then the sway of his hips just as he does that. Then, his entire soul. He carries bits and pieces of the old world with him, and with it a sort of suggestive charm that can only be found in the old posters of handsome soldiers and pretty Nuka-Cola girls. They truly don’t make them like him anymore.

Danse doesn’t know what is what anymore, but of this he is sure. He smiles; he can’t stop smiling. It’s a shy little thing, and he takes a breath before he starts, “If you have a moment…”

Sole laughs. “I’d say I have more than a moment, Danse.” There are droplets on his eyelashes. “Is something wrong?”

*

Danse feels like he is bathing in sun-warmth. He will cherish this feeling while he can.

*

Even though the truck shop remains the home base, everyone seems to find a moment or other to come to the bunker. Danse is still adamant that he remains there when he isn’t escorting Sole around the Commonwealth.

Deacon makes it a point to visit the bunker every once in a while, bringing with him the latest news on Tinker Tom’s quizzes as well as his search for Danse’s past. Sometimes Piper brings him boxes of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes that they eat in secrecy over quiet conversation, at the cost of no headline for her darling newspaper. Valentine does more or less the same, though he insists there is nothing better than a well cooked meal (Danse secretly enjoys the smoke of his cigarettes). Preston keeps a comfortable distance from Danse, but this he tells him: “You’re a good man, Danse. If you want to help, I’m sure the Minutemen could take you in.” They ask for nothing in return, but Danse doesn’t want to take and take and take. He offers help in doing the things he can. He performs a bit of maintenance on Valentine’s clicking wrist, he tips Deacon on the location of another listening post the Railroad could use. He also trains and fights a friendly match with Cait when she’s on edge on one occasion; they sport the bruises like a badge of honor while they last.

(Danse’s fade away eerily fast. He hates hates _hates_ it.)

He feels proud for the friends Sole has managed to take under his wing.

*

Right after the Institute Courser takes the raider synth with him, Sole is bending over the ship’s railing and retching into the sea. His knuckles are white. He’s angry. He’s standing right next to where the synth—Gabriel, the raider leader—stood devoid of any life at a code’s notice. Sole was ready kill Gabriel as he would any other raider, easy as that. Danse doesn’t know what to make of it. Danse only knows of boiling rage against the Institute and its creations.

“They’re sick,” Sole grits through his teeth. Danse is opening a can of purified water. “That’s inhumane. How can they expect me to support them?”

Danse wants to keep him from the Institute and its creations. Safe. He can´t do that when he’s selfish to keep Sole next to him. He hands Sole the water instead. Sole takes his hand and holds on to it like a lifeline.

*

Cait has hidden the bottles Danse has managed to find and hide away under the bed. She brings him a punching bag as a sort of a peace offering.

“Don’t ya dare,” she hisses. She punches Danse in the chest. He knows from experience that she could hurt him if she wanted to.

*

When Danse sinks onto his knees in front of Sole, kissing his ribs and stomach and hipbones, Sole gasps. He’s pink all over. Danse learns that Sole is sensitive everywhere. Sole’s noisy, because of the touching, because he’s surprised as Danse is at the intensity of his libido—something too organic for the Institute to have gotten so right. Danse’s pressing openmouthed kisses on every inch of skin he can with Sole’s hands cradling his head; he presses and breathes him in before moving on to explore Sole’s foreign body.

He won’t allow Sole to touch him.

He allows Sole’s hands to reach for the sides of his neck, into the nest of his hair, but he can’t allow himself to undo Sole’s divinity with his body and his shame. Not even when he sighs Danse’s name like a benediction when he nips the juncture of Sole’s groin and thigh. Not even when Sole’s legs wobble just as Danse takes him into his mouth. Sole’s hands find purchase in the meat of Danse’s shoulder, and Danse guides him into sitting by his hips. He’s inexperienced. He’s sure Sole can see that.

It doesn’t matter. Sole comes quickly with a groan bit into his knuckles. Danse, he drinks him in like he’s communing with Sole’s very soul. Danse’s head is boxed between Sole’s thighs and learns he loves the need that wracks Sole’s body quite like this. He comes beautifully, nearly senseless with the intensity it. He nearly sobs in his release, and he nearly sobs clawing at Danse’s shoulders to let him take care of him.

Danse just needs to squeeze himself through his pants for a moment until he too comes, face buried into Sole’s thigh, Sole’s fingers carding through his hair. Danse takes Sole’s hand and kisses it.

*

The first time Danse sees Sole’s son a war is started. Sole declares his love as well as his disappointment for Shaun in the same conversation. He looks so broken after his son leaves, standing still. He looks so small like this. Danse steps out of his power armor to touch Sole’s shoulder. He doesn’t look at Danse—he doesn’t react nor fight even as he’s engulfed in Danse’s arms into an embrace. Danse doesn’t know what to say, but this, holding him close, he can do. Haylen taught him this much.

With his voice muffled as he buries his face in Danse’s chest, Sole tells him this: “We’re no more than strangers pretending to be family.”

Sole’s hands could hurt him, fingers digging into Danse’s back. “They stole my son. My _baby_ , Danse.”

It’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and Sole starts crying. It’s an ugly thing, shaking and angry and desperate. It’s an act of war. Sole’s body is wracked each time he sobs, he’s wailing. It’s a heartbreaking sound.

He wants to protect Sole. He wants to hunt down the Institute and make them pay for what they’ve done to him, his family, his dreams. He would do anything to undo the footprint of the Institute off the face of the decayed earth and Sole’s life.

*

The Railroad can’t help him anymore, not with the Institute, not after Sole’s precarious cover is blown. Desdemona asks him to seek Preston.

*

He watches Sole speaking to a farmer. It’s a job for the Minutemen, Sole holds on to these jobs like he’s trying to stay afloat. He listens to the man’s worries, his tale of strife against the raiders, and as always he manages to offer some amount of comfort, however small.

To the farmers, Sole is the sun. Danse doesn’t see things as opposed to the idea.

Danse realizes that he hasn’t been able to listen to the people ever since his days as a junk vendor in Rivet City. It’s a sudden thought that distracts him from the conversation. Never with the Brotherhood did he contact the people he’s sworn to protect quite like this.

*

They keep helping settlements for Preston. For the Commonwealth. Sole doesn’t know what he’s doing. This, he tells Danse in the quiet moments before falling asleep. Danse holds him close enough so they become a single creature, the same breathing and the same heartbeat and the same fears.

*

“I love you” is what Sole says when he does get to feel Danse’s cock in his hands. “We can do whatever you’re comfortable with.”

This is what Danse is comfortable with: they haven’t even bothered to take their clothes off, but Danse’s shirt is rucked up because Sole likes to roam his hand all over Danse’s stomach and chest while he sits on Danse’s leg. Danse is starting to feel cold on his back, pressed up against the wall like it is. His body feels tense and taut, and he thinks it will take him some time to learn how to be with Sole like this. It doesn’t matter. The friction of Sole’s hand around his cock is worth it. He’s happy, for this moment.

To focus on his body is overwhelming. He tries not to think—focus on Sole’s pleased hums against his ear, Sole’s encouraging words, Sole’s hand around his cock, touching his chest and neck and face to press thumb and forefinger to tip Danse up for a kiss. He tries not to _wonder_ just why would the Institute make it so he’s able to experience this. Danse has has ruined so many things already, but this he won’t.

Danse sees stars when he comes. It takes him an embarrassingly short time to get there. Sole just smiles at him and caresses his stomach while he wipes his soiled hand on the sheets. Danse’s nose wrinkles. “I think it’s endearing,” Sole sing-songs. He kisses Danse before he can reply.

He vows to make Sole see the same stars. He starts fiddling with the hem of Sole’s shirt, asking, “Can I? I want to help you.”

But Sole refuses him the chance with a soft smile. “I’m just trying to make up for lost time,” he says, pressing a kiss to Danse’s temple.

“That’s what I am trying to do as well.”

Sole flushes visibly. “Oh.” He licks his dry lips. He squirms. His erection brushes against Danse’s leg even through the layers of their pants.

“I can give you my hand,” Danse says, to Sole’s approval.

He does.

He pulls Sole close into his lap and the heel of his hand rubs tight circles over Sole’s erection. The angle is awkward. They aim for closeness instead of efficacy. Danse’s other arm is curled tight around Sole’s waist and Sole has got his arms around him in return. So he doesn’t just get Danse’s hand but his thigh as well to rub against. Together, they bring Sole over the edge with Danse’s palm pressing slow deep circles into the fabric of Sole’s pants and Sole’s sharp, unrestrained jerks. Sole comes undone shaking and gasping until all tension melts from his frame and he’s slumping against Danse’s chest, eyelashes fluttering against Danse’s ear.

Danse feels a swell of affection he can’t quite contain. He kisses Sole high on his temple. “ _Ad victoriam._ ”

Sole punches him in the chest. There’s absolutely no strength behind it.

They wait out their refractory periods with a session of intensive cuddling and the sort of slow kissing that makes Sole croon in his ear.

*

They need to find a bigger bed.

*

They catch the Institute’s broadcast in the early morning, when they’re just arriving back at the bunker to leave items and recharge. Sole was making idle talk. He doesn’t after that.

*

Danse is on his back, and Sole is laying on top of him, slotted between Danse’s thighs to the best of their ability. Danse’s knee is bent at an awkward angle. But Sole has got two fingers inside of him and a hand around his cock, so he doesn’t mind. Sole’s verbal in his appreciation, leaning over his body to croon into his ear. Of course he is.

“You alright there, Danse? You’re doing great. You’re so good, Danse. You’re perfect, you hear me?” He backs off to kiss the scruff over Danse’s chin. “ _Look_ at you. _God_. Look at you, Danse. You’re a sight for sore eyes.” Danse grunts. “I love you, you know that, right? So much.”

Danse holds him close. He’s thankful that Sole can’t see his red face.

*

As it turns out, Shaun was conceived at a park. During winter. When Sole tells him that as a sort pillow talk, Danse manages to not be surprised. He knows what sex and intimacy with Sole are like and he understands, he really does.

*

Curie is everyone’s beloved. Sometimes Sole likes to pick her up and spin her around only for her to squeal with excitement. She is so petite it isn’t much of an effort. Everyone else seems to put an effort into providing Curie with as much excitement and happiness as they can, except for Danse. Even Cait does, much to her own bemusement. Curie is their tiny, ultralight, sweetheart. In turn, she always seems to patch everyone up and care for them, curious at the workings of the human body and its replication. She tries to help Danse, but resources needn’t be wasted on him. He does heal faster than the rest of their group. Than the humans. So does she.

Danse is beginning to work on his opinion on Curie, and reiterating it all at once. It’s complicated. The conversations when she tries to understand what it means to be a synth after being human for a lifetime are difficult.

The thing is, he was sleeping. There’s Sole’s comforting weight on top of him—the only way they can sleep in this bed, really—and there is also Curie sitting on the frame of the bed when Danse wakes up.

She knows it’s intrusive, that much is evident by how her eyes go wide and her mouth forms a little ‘o’ shape. “Oh, _monsieur_ Danse, I apologize!” Her voice is low enough that Sole doesn’t stir. Danse still curls his arms tighter against him, watching Curie as she steps off the bed.

“Are these sleeping arrangements normal?” She asks. She doesn’t look like she’s somehow mocking him. Danse nods. “He looks so peaceful. So did you.”

Sole is sleeping peacefully, yes. He’s also drooling on Danse’s chest.

“Leave,” Danse says. “Please.” Then, once he leaves the bed and joins her, he says, “I love him. I love him more than anything.”

She didn’t ask, but Curie nods solemnly either way. She didn’t ask. But he needs her to understand. He needs to understand it himself.

*

Everyone catches on after that. The next time they go to Goodneighbor Hancock pulls him aside with a conspiratorial grin. It sets Danse on edge. Hancock has this tell that means nothing good will come from this. Sole is bartering with Daisy. They always spend some time talking about _before_.

“I bet he’s a good shag, ain’t he?”

Danse considers just putting as much space as he can between himself and the ghoul, but decides against it. Instead, he looks at Sole—his back is to them, he’s gesturing broadly. Danse decides he won’t ignore Hancock. He says, “You wouldn’t be able to imagine.” He isn’t willing to divulge anything more.

Sole would be proud if Danse were to tell him that he didn’t call Hancock a chem fiend, he thinks as he walks to Sole’s side.

*

Sole takes him to Railroad HQ again. Everyone gives Danse a hefty amount of space and distrust, but they trust Wanderer. Sole will not lead them into destruction. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Sole tells Danse. “She’s really great. She’s a synth, as well.”

Just the mention of it draws a tight string around Danse’s throat. He nods once. He focuses on Sole’s hand warm and comforting on his arm. “You don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable.” Sole smiles up at him. “But I’d like it if you tried to talk with her.”

Sole leads him to a woman with bleached hair and black lipstick. She clicks her tongue at him. “I’m Glory.” She adjusts her grip on her minigun. It’s larger than her. “I heard you helped Wanderer get H2 to Ticon. Wish I’d been there.”

*

They assemble a bigger bed. When they christen it, Danse ends up on his back with Sole propped on top of him. The bed groans consistently even as they try to strip each other naked. They don’t do much except for laughing for the first minutes.

Sole ends up with a hand around Danse’s cock, the other rubs his stomach. “You’re so lovely,” Sole says before he presses a chaste kiss to the tip. Danse feels Sole’s words against his skin and shudders.

Danse wants to say something. Anything. He’s rendered voiceless. Sole slinks his way up to his face with a satisfied smile that crinkles his eyes. He looks like Proctor Quinlan’s cat when Danse used to rub its belly and chest. Danse rakes his hand down Sole’s chest and he kisses Danse in return. Whatever words Danse might have said are swallowed up and devoured by Sole, who’s tying his hair back into the messiest bun yet.

When Sole swoops down it is to suck the skin at Danse’s inner thigh. Then he kisses along the vein under Danse’s cock. Then, he swallows him whole with no warning. Danse can’t help but jerk into his mouth, feeling the back of Sole’s throat and it’s nearly good enough to cry out.

The added space is a boon. Danse doesn’t have to press his arms tight against his sides, so he holds on to the covers with white knuckles and Sole gets to find the best position to just grind his hips into the covers.

Nothing quite compares to Sole’s enthusiasm—he’s humming around Danse, bobbing and then licking when he has to back off for air. He’s a mess, lips red and puffy, drool over them and his chin. Danse’s toes curl. Sole’s relentless—it doesn’t take long until Danse comes and Sole takes it in. There’s an obscene, wet pop when Sole backs off his cock and spits Danse’s seed into the ashtray on the nightstand and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. It doesn’t keep him from licking his lips like the cat that got the cream. Danse _burns_ at the sight of it. Sole crawls his body back up to kiss him. It’s difficult when Danse is nearly dazed and panting so much, but they manage. The taste of himself in Sole’s mouth and tongue and lips makes the pit of Danse’s belly burn hot. He moans into Sole’s mouth. It shouldn’t be this natural, this easy—synthetic and warm and unnatural—but it is. _It is_.

He manhandles Sole just so his hips and his arousal are flush to Danse’s stomach, his hands guiding Sole’s hips so he’s grinding down against him. Sole looks like he is in pain and ecstasy, like a marble statue fit for a shrine. Danse finds Sole’s heartbeat and kisses it. And that’s when Sole takes the chance to disentangle himself from Danse and flop down at his side. Sole’s cock is a beautiful pink and he’s desperate enough that he doesn’t care about begging, hissing “Danse, Danse please. _Danse_.”

“How do you want me?”

“Your fingers,” Sole forces out. He’s got his cheek and temple buried into the coverlet, but Danse can still see Sole looking at him with this smile he’s come to know.

Sole’s back is arched, chest pressed to the bed. He’s still got a leg thrown over Danse’s. He still inches his own apart, canting his hips. There’s a pattern of pink painted all over him—he’s mesmerizing. Danse doesn’t hesitate, reaching for the lube. He wants to make him feel good. Needs to.

*

They still sleep curled around each other. Neither of them can tell if it’s their natural tendency or a learning experience from the previous bed.

*

The Institute attacks the Castle. They hear it over radio _Freedom_. Preston asks for Sole’s help.

No one can help Sole’s empty eyes.

*

They make their stand alongside the Minutemen. It’s chaos. There are synths and coursers pouring in from everywhere, and at some point Danse loses sight of Sole in the battlefield and fears. He fears mostly because throughout the fight Sole looks like he’s out of it, like he’s drifting and this is all just a bad dream. But he has to fight, there’s no stopping the Institute’s onslaught otherwise. Danse trusts him. He needs to.

*

When Preston finds Sole, it is to find him bashing some courser’s face in with some shock baton he must have found in the battlefield. He’s bloodied, there’s blood streaking down from a cut high on his cheekbone, but most of it isn’t his. Not on his hands, all over his face, his hair, his armor. He looks so tired. The movement is mechanical, and there’s barely any strength to it, now. Sole is shaking all over. The courser’s face barely mimics human, now. Of course, Preston’s first reaction is to get Danse. Of course.

Together, they manage to get Sole to one of the rooms of the Castle. While he resists, he doesn’t actually _fight_ back. The baton falls with a clatter to the side of the dead courser. When Preston simply mutters “Psycho,” Danse understands. Some people just don’t take well to chems. He understands where its coming from.

It doesn’t mean he approves.

He’s supposed to help Sole while Preston gets some water and a rag, clearly distraught at the sight of Sole covered in blood, but Sole sits curled up around himself on a bed and just looks at Danse. He’s pale as the sheet he’s staining with blood. Danse opens his mouth to warn him, but Sole cuts him off.

“I know what I did,” he says. There’s a strained edge to his voice, a bite that very nearly makes Danse flinch. “I did psycho before, I know the risks.”

“When?” Danse asks. He hasn’t used this tone since he was serving with the Brotherhood. He thinks he knows the answer.

Sole blinks. His eyes look almost clear. His arms are curled around his knees. His hands are trembling. “Kellogg.”

That explains Sole’s miserable aspect back when he reported to the police station right after the Prydwen flew in. Danse didn’t notice it, back then. If Haylen did, she certainly didn’t warn him. Danse frowns. “This will not happen again.” He doesn’t like saying this, but he has to. “That junk could kill you, it could destroy you. Look at you.”

“I am not a child, Danse,” Sole grits. “I know the consequences.”

“And yet you decided to do something this shortsighted, I—”

He would say more, but Preston walks in with a metal basin in hand. There’s this look in his eyes, slightly weary and wary at once. He doesn’t need another situation to be diffused. Danse won’t give him one. “Call for me if you need any help,” he says. “Tell me when the general is better.” Then, he walks away again. There are still stragglers to deal with, speeches to be made, damage to access, people to reassure, plans to be made.

The interruption works to at least sublimate the tension in Danse’s jaw. Danse waits for him to close the door before he turns back to ask Sole to sit up, voice gentler this time. Sole does sit up, and he lets Danse swipe the rag over his face and his neck. He doesn’t flinch when Danse cleans the cut and presses to help the clotting. He’s entirely trusting, even when he’s coming down from psycho, and Danse feels suffocated with the sudden swell of affection taking over his lungs and his entire thorax.

“Promise me that we won’t need to have this discussion again,” Danse pleads.

He lets Sole dip his hands into the basin to clean them up. The hair they will have to deal with later.

He shakes his head. “It’s just the Institute now, right?” Sole is picking at the scabs on his knuckles until they bleed. He’s still trembling minutely. He isn’t a man prone to fidgeting, and it makes him look so small. It’s a sight Danse doesn’t want to get used to. Danse considers taking Sole’s hands in his, creating a safe place that deserves Sole. Anything. He ends up holding Sole in his arms, he’s probably staining blood all over his old Brotherhood uniform. He feels powerless to do anything else.

*

“The one good thing about this sort of situation,” Sole says, “is getting to have _thank God we’re alive sex_.” Just then, there’s this bit of the Sole he knows, _his_ Sole.

Danse is utterly confused. “I don’t see the point to that nomenclature.”

Sole laughs, clear and genuine. It’s a good think to listen to when they’re trying to avoid thinking about the future as they walk to Sanctuary. He’s still grinning when he tugs Danse down to nip at his lip. “You’ll see, if you want to,” he promises, voice the right kind of low. “If we’re still alive, that is.”

Danse kisses his forehead, Sole hums. “Just, tell me I won’t lose you too.”

*

They need the holotape. The one Sole handed to the Brotherhood and started them on this path of ruin and rust. Sole wants to pry as much from the Institute’s records as he possibly can. So, he tells Danse he’s headed for the Prydwen.

“Don’t go where I can’t follow, soldier,” Danse says.

Sole kisses him so softly before he leaves.

*

They win.

Barely, perhaps, but an evacuation order is issued and the old CIT ruins are leveled. The very same reactor they built to usher in a new age is the one that proves to be the Institute’s demise, brought upon by Father’s own father. It feels like justice, Danse thinks. There’s smoke and ashes in the sky signaling the end of the Institute. Soon enough, vertibirds swarm from the Prydwen to survey the area. They are so focused on their intent that don’t find them atop the building. It’s for the best.

Everyone congratulates Sole for his accomplishment, but he is quick to slip away. Danse congratulates him too, makes it clear just how well Sole did no matter how Sole himself can’t see it right now. He keeps his hand on Sole’s shoulder while everyone seems to want to talk with him. He holds onto Danse’s hand like it’s the only thing keeping him upright at this point.

No one ever mentions sweet little Shaun, rescued from the Institute’s clutches.

*

They spend the night at Hotel Rexford in Goodneighbor opening cans of water to clean up, and then pretending to fall asleep. They need to get to Shaun at the Castle the next day. They lie on the bed and talk about Shaun and the future, Sole curled up against Danse’s chest. He worries about malfunction, about what things the Institute might have done to him, about finding a safe place for him, how he needs to get Codsworth to be with Shaun. Danse only wants the child to know the truth of who he is. It wouldn’t feel right otherwise.

Sole confesses, “I don’t know if I should be mourning my son or planning for his future.” He laughs mirthlessly.

Danse means to correct him, but he pauses. _Remember._ The synth child is still Sole’s son, for whom he bled and crawled his way through the wasteland. So is Father, the former director of the Institute, no matter their differences in ideology. Remember that.

*

Sole’s hand is curled tightly around his when they visit Shaun for the first time, at the Castle. The child they find isn’t the baby that Sole fought for, but he is his son. Sole is his father. They have the same golden hair, the same eyes. That much is made clear when Shaun runs up to them and wraps his little arms around Sole’s stomach, hugging him tightly. Danse isn’t a part of this family, but Sole wishes him to be—it can be a slow process, Sole says, “Please don’t make me choose between you and my son.” Danse doesn’t know what to make of the synth child, but Sole loves Shaun. He wants to get there, he truly wants to. Either way, Danse feels happy for them.

Sole picks Shaun up and holds him close to his chest, letting out a choked sob. “Please tell me we’ll stay together,” Sole murmurs, tugging Danse closer to them. “Please.”

They’ll figure it out. They will. They will.

*

That night, after Shaun is fast asleep and tucked into bed, Sole shows him what _thank God we’re alive_ sex is all about. Danse feels alive. They are warm and sweaty and tired, sporting the laziest pair of grins, littered with bruises and scratches and cuts, but they’re alive and ready to keep going.


End file.
